


The Fall

by Cohens_Girl



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gore, M/M, consider yourself warned, hints at non-con, it's dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6450439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't always like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Tanaka and Souda, Before, During, and After Despair. 
> 
> Not too sure about this one. I know it is a bit overwrought but its from Tanaka's POV. I don't have to explain further than that, right? It doesn't exactly follow a chronological pattern either. Sorry! 
> 
> The italics at the beginning are taken from Hozier's From Eden and categorically do not belong to me. I can't help it, I'm a total sucker for Hozier. Its amazing how he can string words we all know together and make something totally new and beautiful.
> 
> Warnings: All of them. Slash, language, violence, gore, hints at non-con. It doesn't end well for the hamsters, either.

*

  
_Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword_

_  
_ _Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me - I should know :_

_  
_ _I slithered here from Eden just to hide outside your door._

  
  
_*_

 

 

He has a drill in his hand, vibrating rhythms that shudder up through the soles of your feet. The sound of flesh splitting is small and indistinct, but the screams – they are long and loud and inhuman, the wails of death itself.

 

The sound of bone cracking beneath rotating metal is something you will never forget. His laughter is worse; hyena-ugly, hysterical and so very hollow.

 

Which of these was a relative, you wonder. This arm here? Or this leg? And which was a friend, this rib perhaps? It does not matter. His father came long before, you suspect, the true author of all this endless pain.

 

It will never be enough.

 

He stands, wet with blood and brain and skull, a gun under his arm, a knife in his belt and a grin on his face. Your Eligos, manic and spectacular, a demon of the battlefield. There will be no prisoners of this war : perhaps that is best.

 

In the stillness of the aftermath, he half-turns to you, enough to acknowledge your presence; his only exception to the rule of despair.

 

“Universal chaos.” You whisper, but you know it is a lie; this brand of chaos is his and his alone.

 

 

*****

 

 

It wasn't always like this.

 

Once his hands were warm and gentle on your chest, smooth white skin clean and unmarred – long lashes and coy smiles - ungainly adolescent limbs tangled together, unashamed and unhurried. Once there were lazy kisses and curious fingertips and whispered nothing-words to fill up the comfortable silences.

 

There was so much good, and you were blinded by it.

 

The sun would stream in through the curtains and lay on his skin, a shimmering oasis in the desert of your sheets; vibrant hair that smelled of oil and smoke and _him_ spilled across your pillows. You could have stopped to stare, then, could have mapped every inch of his body with your lips.

 

If you had only taken the time.

 

Now all you can see is the blood that drips, rivers formed in the cracks of his palms, the way his limbs shake; the smell of oil and smoke and _something else_ , something wrong, something broken.

 

All the sun in the world will never brighten the darkness in those eyes.

 

 

*****

 

 

How the poison crept in, you will never know. There was always doubt, of course, anxiety and hurt woven into the histories that made you. Every touch you baulked from in panic – too afraid, afraid of _doing it wrong_ , afraid to be vulnerable, to let him in – every black eye that he would fail to explain, cringing like a beaten dog...every misplaced word and meaningless fight, every stupid, angry mistake either of you ever made and still, even if all the beasts in the blazing inferno of the abyss had feasted on his soul, you could never have expected _this_.

 

Not your Souda, your Beloved One.

 

You suspect it was partly your own doing; the skin to skin contact that you warned him from, slowly but surely infecting him with your own poison. Not despair – no, you offered him the sweeter suicide, the one that begins with thoughtless touches and guileless smiles.

 

Your absurd mortal walked into it willingly, martyred himself at the knees of his Overlord like it was his destiny; no remorse, no regret, he flayed his own heart open to let your venom in.

 

And – and...Gods above, you had fallen from your pedestal in a second to meet him there. Just to be his equal.

 

He found strength in your weaknesses, and you found beauty in his foolishness.

 

But then. _Then_. The succubus Enoshima, her words shifting like razors under the skin – she sniffed out each perilous uncertainty, hunted down every instance of selfishness, cruelty, masochism, brought every dark thought to the fore until it blackened all that was pure. It would be so easy to call it all a lie, but she was merely glass from a shattered mirror, showing everything as it was but – but refracted, disjointed...Broken. Through her sorcery, his strength became your weakness, his beauty your foolishness.

 

You followed him into Hell.

 

 

*****

 

 

He toes through the bodies, snorting with a mild sort of humour when entrails trickle out or limbs unhinge themselves.

 

You want to hate it – but you can't. It settles in your chest, this darkness, this awful delight, this terrible _retribution_. It isn't your fantasy, this tide of blood, but that does not mean that you do not feel some small sense of satisfaction at watching him murder those that rejected you. Despair; it is a drug. Unnecessarily destructive, but _so_ intoxicating.

 

And now it is impossible to stop.

 

Still, the truth is, the only one you need to own stands a few feet before you, lost, marvelling at his power, at the idea that his hands have the capability to kill.

 

Enoshima never needed to turn her serpents tongue to your ear. He will never quite be yours again; what more could she take from you?

 

“Get over here.” He says, quiet but forceful, his bloodied fingers reaching for you. You loved him once, and probably love him still – but you hate him, too, this monster masquerading as the boy you knew.

 

Of course, you go to him. You let him touch you, run his hands over you, infiltrating each intimate space with careful consideration – empty kisses placed on unmoved flesh - all while he is stood on the torn chest of some woman you do not know. You let him because you do not quite recognise what it could mean to say _no_ , and perhaps...

 

Perhaps because a part of you, the smallest, deepest, darkest part of you is afraid that he would kill you too.

 

 

*****

 

 

You remember -

 

How his jaw felt when you ran a thumb along it, the spun-silk of his hair threading through your fingers -

 

The press of your hips together, how perfectly it fit – preordained, unmistakable - how gentle his gaze was, how wide his smiles, how stupid and carefree and irrepressible

 

He would never stop talking, so hyper-emotional, prone to panic and tears and anger, but, but,

 

Thoughtful, too, and clever, the mythical beast that only you could tame, sharks teeth and, and, and

 

There was more, there was so much more, but you can't seem to grasp it, can't -

 

 

*****

 

 

You try to remember and do not think, do not think about the things you let him do among the cold bodies of the dead.

 

*****

 

You should have stopped it. Should have put an end to it long before it began; should have asked about his bruises, or set rabid dogs on that poor excuse of a parent, should have told him time and again how beautiful, how wonderful, how _important_ he was. Should have questioned your lover's growing attachment to _Enoshima_ , should have seen through _she's so kind to me man, like, she actually_ understands _me,_ should have smelt the foul air of discontent and remedied it before things spiralled out of control.

 

Above all, you should not have left your dark divas of destruction unattended. Unprotected.

 

Their little bodies, crushed and maimed, still haunt you; you don't believe it was Souda, even now, even though you witnessed him slowly cock his head to the side, expression predatory, and mumble,

 

“Huh. Crazy.” with less sympathy than as if he were staring at a fly squashed on a window-pane.

 

The All-Seeing Eye knows how you howled – how you screamed and wept and cursed, how you clawed and scratched at the one you loved above all else. You wanted blood, then, wanted to rip the heart out of every living thing but...even that didn't last.

 

Even despair is nothing in the face of apathy.

 

Between his bloody, naked limbs and the fissures in your palms, scrabbling for purchase on the concrete, you know you ought to feel pain.

 

Regret is a friend you are well acquainted with but pain - pain has become hard to recognise. Instead you picture Jump-P, that sweet, unsuspecting little ball of fur and tell yourself that you should have stopped it, but you didn't; that this is how it is, now, and if you are going to suffer like this, then the rest of this godforsaken planet is going to burn with you.

 

*****

 

The thing is, you have this memory.

 

The sky heavy with dusk and Souda leaning on the bike racks, covered in oil – when was he ever _not_ covered in oil - his eyes focused on a spot that you could not see. His face, handsome, dream-like and awed, lips slightly parted.

 

You'd barely spoken to him, then. Barely knew of his existence, sidled over only out of intrigue.

 

“An Amami hare.” You'd whispered, making him flinch and frown irritably. _Foolish mongrel_ , you'd thought, _utterly unaware of his surroundings._ “A rare species. Unusual, so close to school.” God only knows how it had gotten there. It's black fur caught the sun and shone like marble, dark, intelligent eyes surveying its surroundings and button nose twitching.

 

You'd crept over, careful not to startle the creature – offered it bamboo shoots from a pocket on the inside of your coat. It had considered you for a moment before lolloping over to nibble at the offering; it had even allowed you to pet it's back, as smooth as polished onyx, before it hopped away into the bushes.

 

It knew from whence it came and what paths to take. You had chosen not to interfere.

 

Souda had gaped like you were a marvel, a mystery of the universe; he had spluttered,

 

“Dude, that – was – _awesome_.” and you had blushed and grunted and hidden behind your scarf.

 

The thing is, you have this memory – and as long as you have it, you can never truly hate him, because how could that sweet boy turn into something so abominable?

 

You have this memory, and you cherish it, right up until the end.

 

 

*****

 

 

When Enoshima dies, you all die with her.

 

You are sure that was her plan all along.

 

Your bodies still walk the earth, of course, blind husks, puppets with no master – but it is as if you have made a deal with the devil, and he has won your soul.

 

Souda does not eat or sleep or speak. He grows greyer with each passing moment, and you...Well, you surrendered long, long ago.

 

There is nothing left of Gundam Tanaka. Nothing but a hollow kind of denial and an unending desire to inflict pain.

 

“We will finish what we started.” You tell him, the one who has scraped you so raw that all that is left is a column of exposed nerves, open to every form of agony. He looks at you then, as if he actually _sees_ you, something like respect colouring his features.

 

“We will be despair.”

 

 

*****

 

 

You come to awareness with tubes in your nose and your throat and your arms. Too weak to move, to open your eyes; too weak to remember. A machine breathes for you, chest inflating and deflating in an unfailing rhythm.

 

“I'm sorry.” Weeps a voice that you recognise. “I'm s-so so-rry. It's all my fa-ult. I remember, I – I – _it's all my fault._ ” Hot breath trailing over your knuckles, a weight pressed into your thigh. Familiar, so familiar, a life-time ago. “I'm s-sorry. I'm - sorry.” Over and over and over again, wetness spreading over the backs of your hands, lips offering half-hearted kisses to your fingertips. “I'm sorry. I'm so so-rry.”

 

Beloved One, you think, but you have no strength to speak.

 

You cannot absolve his sins – they are too many, too terrible to forgive.

 

 _I'm sorry_ , he whispers, and though you cannot forgive him, you love him all over again. He has always been your weakness, the one crack in your defences. _I'm sorry_ , and you know you would follow that voice into Hell just as you did then.

 

He will always be your one true act of despair.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
